Day 3 - Into The Woods
Title: Into The Woods
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Buffy and friends stop in Mirkwood on their way to the War.
Word Count: 2320
Note: Getting it out early today - I'm pretty sure work will run late tonight and I've been cutting it close enough as it is...
Buffy tried to keep calm as they approached the gates of Thranduil’s halls. Usually she liked visiting her Sindarin kin. Today, however, was not usual times. War was nearly upon them.
Legolas was accompanying Estel and the Ring to Mordor. The twins were planning to round up what Dunedain they could to bring as reinforcements to Gondor, Arwen was trying to stay calm despite being excluded from the war due to the restrictions of her future role as Queen of Gondor. (She would at least be able to help contain Tindomiel’s irritation at being given nothing more productive to do than babysitting.) Buffy herself was on her way to fight balrogs in the East- and those were the simple, easy parts.
The part that had sounded so much simpler in her head was in front of her right now - getting through Mirkwood without another Kinslaying.
She’d never really stopped to consider the logistics of ‘riding through Thranduil’s realm with haru Makalaurë’. It wasn’t even until Glorfindel took her aside and suggested that he and Makalaurë should ride around the northern edges of the forest - risking themselves every step of the way, since there could be orcs or worse anywhere by now - that she realized just how badly Thranduil might react.
Menegroth was history to her. Thranduil had lived it.
Allowing the two older elves to peel off with the hope of meeting up with them later was not a risk she was willing to take. Yes, she would have tried to do this all by herself if she had to. But even she thought taking on multiple balrogs solo might be pushing it. And the two of them were the only two elves she knew other than grandmother and Celeborn who had actually seen, let alone fought, these things before.
She’d really prefer not to have a repeat of ‘the mire of his blood’. And she’s so going to have words with her great-great-grandfather Turukano about that whenever she gets to Valinor. Seriously, who writes that down about their own brother’s death? Or lets someone else write it down? It was an image she could have done without, and one that had haunted her sleep after she’d read it. It was no comfort to imagine it haunting him as well.
Ironically, that image was what had started her quest to make sure that balrogs were officially extinct. She’d been hoping they were.
The elves didn’t know the saying “hope in one hand…”
She was thinking about introducing it. The Sindar would appreciate the earthiness, the Noldor would probably agree with the sentiment.
Years of research had led her to conclude that there were most likely three balrogs that had survived the War of Wrath and end of the First Age. One she didn’t have to worry about - Durin’s Bane was buried in the mines of Moria, and unlikely to emerge unless someone was dumb enough to go looking for it. Even if it did, that would be Grandmother’s problem. (Fortunately, Grandmother had a ready solution in the army of the Galadhrim and her ring.) Two, however, were unaccounted for, not seen since the last year of the War of Wrath, when they had last been spotted fleeing northeast.
Aragorn may think that her travels over the last eighty years have been motivated by nothing more than her own whims and the invitations of her various friends and relatives. He’s only partially right. She’s spent much of the last fifty years tracking down Morgoth’s worst ideas to make sure that Sauron can’t use them to bite anyone in the butt. Killing dragons was no big deal if you could do it by stealth - and she’s got two dragon shaped notches in her figurative belt to show that she can be stealthy at need - but even elves had a hard time sneaking up on balrogs in their lair.
That doesn’t mean that she didn’t find out where the lairs were. Or work out what Sauron’s play would be.
She had every reason to expect that the two she’s going after will marching down past the Sea of Rhun to Mordor, and they would have a not so small army of orcs from the Iron Hills with them. It’s meant to be one of the many unpleasant surprises Sauron wanted to have up his sleeve when he moved on Gondor. Erebor and Dale might be closer to where the balrogs have been hiding, but Gondor was the real prize. The orcs of Ered Mithrin were more than enough to keep Erebor pinned down. Mirkwood and Lorien will have other pressing worries in the form of Moria and Dol Guldur.
Besides, she just knew Sauron was the type that would enjoy bringing creatures that were at the fall of Gondolin to the mannish city that had taken Gondolin as its model.
That army will never reach the Ash Mountains if she has anything to say about it.
She just has to get herself and her Nerdanelion grandfather through the Woodland Realm alive first - a task which had sounded a lot simpler before she could actually see how furious Thranduil was.
“You have utterly taken leave of your senses, Elrondiel! My study. Now!”
If the words themselves left her any illusion about just how much trouble she’s in this time, the language removed all doubt. Thranduil had reverted to the tongue of his youth, Doriathrin. The Sindarin in common use these days was based on a very different dialect. She only knows it because Celeborn had taught it to all his grandchildren, even the one who was worst at languages.
On the bright side, this meant that even if the Scoobies stood right outside the door, they wouldn’t understand most of the yelling.
Thranduil deliberately left her standing while he sat. He got to be comfortable while she tried not to fidget or look guilty. He’s raked her over the coals enough times now for her to be familiar with his little tricks - even if he’d deny they were tricks.
Not speaking for several minutes was a new one.
Finally, in a flat tone of voice, he said a single word.
“Explain.”
She blinked. Extreme restraint was not usually his style when he’s upset. Which meant she was in uncharted territory, well beyond annoyed, irritated, aggravated, and out of patience.
“Explain what?” she asked, stalling for time while trying to figure out a polite, non-offensive way to say ‘please don’t kill him’.
He just waited.
Damn. She had been hoping for actual shouting.
“He is my kinsman,” she began carefully.
“That a princess of the Sindar should acknowledge such a relationship with a Kinslayer, let alone that Kinslayer-“ he hissed.
“You said explain, you could at least let me get the explanation out!” she protested. “Yes, he’s my kinsman. Like, multiple different ways and I’d probably need a diagram to explain them, and that’s not all the fault of the Noldor either, cause at least one Sindar prince decided that marrying a descendant of Finwë was a good idea!”
She silently apologized to her grandfather for dragging him into this, because as riled as Thranduil was, Celeborn was definitely going to hear about this at length, even if he was older and higher ranking according to the Sindar.
Thranduil waved irritably for her to continue.
“Besides actual blood relationships, he raised my father, which makes him-”
“He abducted your father,” Thranduil corrected through gritted teeth. “And your uncle. After slaughtering half of Sirion! And by the time the Kinslayers deigned to release them, Elros had been so affected by their captivity that he chose to become mortal!”
Whoa. That was a few more issues than she had bargained for- and probably more than she should try to address. Thranduil will not want to hear that her father actually sounded pretty happy on the rare occasions he spoke of his ‘captivity’.
“Besides that, which perhaps you have been shielded from, how can you possibly defend bringing into my halls one whose hands drip with Sindarin blood? Need I really remind you of who destroyed Menegroth? Have you forgotten who slew Dior? Or his sons?”
“Is that a rhetorical question, or is this one of the ones I’m actually supposed to answer?” Buffy asked cautiously.
At his glare, she tried not to roll her eyes. It wasn’t her fault that he made it deliberately hard to tell which was which in these little ‘chats’. Apparently this one wasn’t rhetorical.
“I was taught that Celegorm and Dior killed each other, and Curufin somehow ended up dead in the same room and absolutely nobody missed him.”
Technically, his older brothers had missed him, but not only did she know better than to say that to a pissed-off Sinda, she’s pretty sure even Makalaurë will admit that Curufin was a douche who liked to stir up trouble just for giggles. The one time his name had been brought up in front of her grandfather - Celeborn, not Makalaurë- Galadriel hadn’t bothered to stop him calling Curufin all sorts of words Buffy hadn’t heard before. Her naughty Sindarin vocabulary had grown three sizes that day.
“Ah, so you do acknowledge their deeds?”
“That one was rhetorical,” Buffy said triumphantly, because she’d fallen for that ruse before. “Maglor didn’t kill Dior, and Maedhros went searching for Elured and Elurin. Not that I have Maedhros up my sleeve. Just being clear.”
“Which in no way excuses the killing of other Iathrim,” Thranduil snapped. “Or how they harried your grandmother off a cliff.”
Buffy had heard that story straight from Makalaurë - she’s prepared to believe his version, because he was actually there - and later from Glorfindel who’d spoken to Elwing herself. There was no harrying about it. Elwing had taken her fate into her own hands. She jumped, of her own free will, believing that the words of the Oath meant they would try to kill her even if she surrendered, and reasoning that if she went voluntarily, she’d at least get the joy of depriving them of the Silmaril.
Buffy respected that - and so, he had made clear, did Makalaurë. She also had a feeling Elwing might be somewhat annoyed that both the Sindar and the Noldor had downgraded her moment of badass Kinslayer-thwarting into a passive affair in which she was chased over the edge in desperation or panic.
Unfortunately, this was not the time to fight that battle.
“Does it help if I tell you I need him for something that will probably get him killed?” she asked cautiously.
From the way she suddenly had Thranduil’s full attention, and he ceased interrupting, it probably did.
“I’m going balrog hunting.”
There it was - the look she or her brothers got at least once every time they visited, the one that said that Thranduil questioned both their sanity and their parents’.
She started to elaborate, but a single hand cut her off. The other hand Thranduil used to pinch the bridge of his nose, while he made a face that suggested that she pained him more than everything Sauron and Morgoth had ever done put together.
“Now, Elrondiel,” he said slowly in a tone so carefully measured it suggested an imminent explosion, “you should explain why under the sun, moon, and all Elbereth’s stars I should not confine you for your own good until this war is over. Does your father know what you are doing?”
“Of course he does!” she replied, indignant that he even needed to ask. “Maybe you didn’t notice Glorfindel out there? Even if I snuck off to the war, he wouldn’t. You might not like him, but you know darn well he’s not the sneaking type!”
Thranduil’s pained expression hadn’t lessened, but he did nod acknowledgement of the fact that Glorfindel was honest to a fault. If she’d snuck out, or was acting against her parents’ wishes, he’d probably be trying to drag her kicking and screaming back home. He would not succeed, but he’d try.
“My parents know, my brothers know, Grandmother and Grandfather know. They all approved. They weren’t happy about it, but they didn’t forbid me from going.”
She doesn’t quite catch all of what Thranduil muttered about Luthien, but apparently Arwen was not the only one reminding Thranduil of her these days. She was pretty sure Thranduil didn’t mean it that way, but she’ll take it as a good sign… after all, her great-great-grandmother had achieved several impossible things. Arwen could have the looks if Buffy got the ‘does impossible things’.
“Leave Tinuviel out of it,” she suggested. “This really has nothing to do with history, except the part of it that inconveniently left a dark lord and a few stray balrogs running around. What do you propose I do? It’s not like anyone else is going to volunteer to go kill them. The grand strategy for what to do with the one in Moria consists of ‘let’s just hope it sleeps through this one’!”
“Enough, young one,” Thranduil said.
His tone was quiet, but there was an absolute authority in it that she was hard pressed to defy.
“I’m sure you could give me reasons all day long on why you believe you must march off to your death. I find I would rather not hear them.”
Oh, man. He was going for the guilt. Even worse, she got the feeling he wasn’t doing it deliberately. How ridiculous was it that if she did end up dying, she was going to feel worse about how Thranduil would take it than her parents?
“Dying is not the plan, kinsman,” she assured him. “Orcs are going to die. Balrogs are going to die. I’m planning to live.”
He doesn’t look at all comforted by her words.
“Enough. I do not wish to hear any more. Send your cousin in. If your father has sent messages, I will hear them from him.”
She wasn’t foolish enough to ask which cousin he meant.
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Buffy and friends stop in Mirkwood on their way to the War.
Word Count: 2320
Note: Getting it out early today - I'm pretty sure work will run late tonight and I've been cutting it close enough as it is...
Buffy tried to keep calm as they approached the gates of Thranduil’s halls. Usually she liked visiting her Sindarin kin. Today, however, was not usual times. War was nearly upon them.
Legolas was accompanying Estel and the Ring to Mordor. The twins were planning to round up what Dunedain they could to bring as reinforcements to Gondor, Arwen was trying to stay calm despite being excluded from the war due to the restrictions of her future role as Queen of Gondor. (She would at least be able to help contain Tindomiel’s irritation at being given nothing more productive to do than babysitting.) Buffy herself was on her way to fight balrogs in the East- and those were the simple, easy parts.
The part that had sounded so much simpler in her head was in front of her right now - getting through Mirkwood without another Kinslaying.
She’d never really stopped to consider the logistics of ‘riding through Thranduil’s realm with haru Makalaurë’. It wasn’t even until Glorfindel took her aside and suggested that he and Makalaurë should ride around the northern edges of the forest - risking themselves every step of the way, since there could be orcs or worse anywhere by now - that she realized just how badly Thranduil might react.
Menegroth was history to her. Thranduil had lived it.
Allowing the two older elves to peel off with the hope of meeting up with them later was not a risk she was willing to take. Yes, she would have tried to do this all by herself if she had to. But even she thought taking on multiple balrogs solo might be pushing it. And the two of them were the only two elves she knew other than grandmother and Celeborn who had actually seen, let alone fought, these things before.
She’d really prefer not to have a repeat of ‘the mire of his blood’. And she’s so going to have words with her great-great-grandfather Turukano about that whenever she gets to Valinor. Seriously, who writes that down about their own brother’s death? Or lets someone else write it down? It was an image she could have done without, and one that had haunted her sleep after she’d read it. It was no comfort to imagine it haunting him as well.
Ironically, that image was what had started her quest to make sure that balrogs were officially extinct. She’d been hoping they were.
The elves didn’t know the saying “hope in one hand…”
She was thinking about introducing it. The Sindar would appreciate the earthiness, the Noldor would probably agree with the sentiment.
Years of research had led her to conclude that there were most likely three balrogs that had survived the War of Wrath and end of the First Age. One she didn’t have to worry about - Durin’s Bane was buried in the mines of Moria, and unlikely to emerge unless someone was dumb enough to go looking for it. Even if it did, that would be Grandmother’s problem. (Fortunately, Grandmother had a ready solution in the army of the Galadhrim and her ring.) Two, however, were unaccounted for, not seen since the last year of the War of Wrath, when they had last been spotted fleeing northeast.
Aragorn may think that her travels over the last eighty years have been motivated by nothing more than her own whims and the invitations of her various friends and relatives. He’s only partially right. She’s spent much of the last fifty years tracking down Morgoth’s worst ideas to make sure that Sauron can’t use them to bite anyone in the butt. Killing dragons was no big deal if you could do it by stealth - and she’s got two dragon shaped notches in her figurative belt to show that she can be stealthy at need - but even elves had a hard time sneaking up on balrogs in their lair.
That doesn’t mean that she didn’t find out where the lairs were. Or work out what Sauron’s play would be.
She had every reason to expect that the two she’s going after will marching down past the Sea of Rhun to Mordor, and they would have a not so small army of orcs from the Iron Hills with them. It’s meant to be one of the many unpleasant surprises Sauron wanted to have up his sleeve when he moved on Gondor. Erebor and Dale might be closer to where the balrogs have been hiding, but Gondor was the real prize. The orcs of Ered Mithrin were more than enough to keep Erebor pinned down. Mirkwood and Lorien will have other pressing worries in the form of Moria and Dol Guldur.
Besides, she just knew Sauron was the type that would enjoy bringing creatures that were at the fall of Gondolin to the mannish city that had taken Gondolin as its model.
That army will never reach the Ash Mountains if she has anything to say about it.
She just has to get herself and her Nerdanelion grandfather through the Woodland Realm alive first - a task which had sounded a lot simpler before she could actually see how furious Thranduil was.
“You have utterly taken leave of your senses, Elrondiel! My study. Now!”
If the words themselves left her any illusion about just how much trouble she’s in this time, the language removed all doubt. Thranduil had reverted to the tongue of his youth, Doriathrin. The Sindarin in common use these days was based on a very different dialect. She only knows it because Celeborn had taught it to all his grandchildren, even the one who was worst at languages.
On the bright side, this meant that even if the Scoobies stood right outside the door, they wouldn’t understand most of the yelling.
Thranduil deliberately left her standing while he sat. He got to be comfortable while she tried not to fidget or look guilty. He’s raked her over the coals enough times now for her to be familiar with his little tricks - even if he’d deny they were tricks.
Not speaking for several minutes was a new one.
Finally, in a flat tone of voice, he said a single word.
“Explain.”
She blinked. Extreme restraint was not usually his style when he’s upset. Which meant she was in uncharted territory, well beyond annoyed, irritated, aggravated, and out of patience.
“Explain what?” she asked, stalling for time while trying to figure out a polite, non-offensive way to say ‘please don’t kill him’.
He just waited.
Damn. She had been hoping for actual shouting.
“He is my kinsman,” she began carefully.
“That a princess of the Sindar should acknowledge such a relationship with a Kinslayer, let alone that Kinslayer-“ he hissed.
“You said explain, you could at least let me get the explanation out!” she protested. “Yes, he’s my kinsman. Like, multiple different ways and I’d probably need a diagram to explain them, and that’s not all the fault of the Noldor either, cause at least one Sindar prince decided that marrying a descendant of Finwë was a good idea!”
She silently apologized to her grandfather for dragging him into this, because as riled as Thranduil was, Celeborn was definitely going to hear about this at length, even if he was older and higher ranking according to the Sindar.
Thranduil waved irritably for her to continue.
“Besides actual blood relationships, he raised my father, which makes him-”
“He abducted your father,” Thranduil corrected through gritted teeth. “And your uncle. After slaughtering half of Sirion! And by the time the Kinslayers deigned to release them, Elros had been so affected by their captivity that he chose to become mortal!”
Whoa. That was a few more issues than she had bargained for- and probably more than she should try to address. Thranduil will not want to hear that her father actually sounded pretty happy on the rare occasions he spoke of his ‘captivity’.
“Besides that, which perhaps you have been shielded from, how can you possibly defend bringing into my halls one whose hands drip with Sindarin blood? Need I really remind you of who destroyed Menegroth? Have you forgotten who slew Dior? Or his sons?”
“Is that a rhetorical question, or is this one of the ones I’m actually supposed to answer?” Buffy asked cautiously.
At his glare, she tried not to roll her eyes. It wasn’t her fault that he made it deliberately hard to tell which was which in these little ‘chats’. Apparently this one wasn’t rhetorical.
“I was taught that Celegorm and Dior killed each other, and Curufin somehow ended up dead in the same room and absolutely nobody missed him.”
Technically, his older brothers had missed him, but not only did she know better than to say that to a pissed-off Sinda, she’s pretty sure even Makalaurë will admit that Curufin was a douche who liked to stir up trouble just for giggles. The one time his name had been brought up in front of her grandfather - Celeborn, not Makalaurë- Galadriel hadn’t bothered to stop him calling Curufin all sorts of words Buffy hadn’t heard before. Her naughty Sindarin vocabulary had grown three sizes that day.
“Ah, so you do acknowledge their deeds?”
“That one was rhetorical,” Buffy said triumphantly, because she’d fallen for that ruse before. “Maglor didn’t kill Dior, and Maedhros went searching for Elured and Elurin. Not that I have Maedhros up my sleeve. Just being clear.”
“Which in no way excuses the killing of other Iathrim,” Thranduil snapped. “Or how they harried your grandmother off a cliff.”
Buffy had heard that story straight from Makalaurë - she’s prepared to believe his version, because he was actually there - and later from Glorfindel who’d spoken to Elwing herself. There was no harrying about it. Elwing had taken her fate into her own hands. She jumped, of her own free will, believing that the words of the Oath meant they would try to kill her even if she surrendered, and reasoning that if she went voluntarily, she’d at least get the joy of depriving them of the Silmaril.
Buffy respected that - and so, he had made clear, did Makalaurë. She also had a feeling Elwing might be somewhat annoyed that both the Sindar and the Noldor had downgraded her moment of badass Kinslayer-thwarting into a passive affair in which she was chased over the edge in desperation or panic.
Unfortunately, this was not the time to fight that battle.
“Does it help if I tell you I need him for something that will probably get him killed?” she asked cautiously.
From the way she suddenly had Thranduil’s full attention, and he ceased interrupting, it probably did.
“I’m going balrog hunting.”
There it was - the look she or her brothers got at least once every time they visited, the one that said that Thranduil questioned both their sanity and their parents’.
She started to elaborate, but a single hand cut her off. The other hand Thranduil used to pinch the bridge of his nose, while he made a face that suggested that she pained him more than everything Sauron and Morgoth had ever done put together.
“Now, Elrondiel,” he said slowly in a tone so carefully measured it suggested an imminent explosion, “you should explain why under the sun, moon, and all Elbereth’s stars I should not confine you for your own good until this war is over. Does your father know what you are doing?”
“Of course he does!” she replied, indignant that he even needed to ask. “Maybe you didn’t notice Glorfindel out there? Even if I snuck off to the war, he wouldn’t. You might not like him, but you know darn well he’s not the sneaking type!”
Thranduil’s pained expression hadn’t lessened, but he did nod acknowledgement of the fact that Glorfindel was honest to a fault. If she’d snuck out, or was acting against her parents’ wishes, he’d probably be trying to drag her kicking and screaming back home. He would not succeed, but he’d try.
“My parents know, my brothers know, Grandmother and Grandfather know. They all approved. They weren’t happy about it, but they didn’t forbid me from going.”
She doesn’t quite catch all of what Thranduil muttered about Luthien, but apparently Arwen was not the only one reminding Thranduil of her these days. She was pretty sure Thranduil didn’t mean it that way, but she’ll take it as a good sign… after all, her great-great-grandmother had achieved several impossible things. Arwen could have the looks if Buffy got the ‘does impossible things’.
“Leave Tinuviel out of it,” she suggested. “This really has nothing to do with history, except the part of it that inconveniently left a dark lord and a few stray balrogs running around. What do you propose I do? It’s not like anyone else is going to volunteer to go kill them. The grand strategy for what to do with the one in Moria consists of ‘let’s just hope it sleeps through this one’!”
“Enough, young one,” Thranduil said.
His tone was quiet, but there was an absolute authority in it that she was hard pressed to defy.
“I’m sure you could give me reasons all day long on why you believe you must march off to your death. I find I would rather not hear them.”
Oh, man. He was going for the guilt. Even worse, she got the feeling he wasn’t doing it deliberately. How ridiculous was it that if she did end up dying, she was going to feel worse about how Thranduil would take it than her parents?
“Dying is not the plan, kinsman,” she assured him. “Orcs are going to die. Balrogs are going to die. I’m planning to live.”
He doesn’t look at all comforted by her words.
“Enough. I do not wish to hear any more. Send your cousin in. If your father has sent messages, I will hear them from him.”
She wasn’t foolish enough to ask which cousin he meant.